


5000 psi

by sabinelagrande



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Anger, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, First Time, Love Confessions, Miscommunication, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-03
Updated: 2014-10-03
Packaged: 2018-02-19 17:17:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2396432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabinelagrande/pseuds/sabinelagrande
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Melinda functions perfectly under high pressure. Until she doesn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	5000 psi

"You were staying out of the field," Melinda says, for the dozenth time. "That was my condition."

"No offense," Phil replies, "but they kinda brought the field to me."

They're kind of both right and kind of both wrong. This started with a friendly-ish invitation to check out some potential new resources; nobody actually _likes_ arms dealers, but Phil thought there was a pretty good chance they could be persuaded towards the light. Melinda had only agreed to the meeting provided that she went with him. The fact that she let him do it at all said that she thought it was a sure thing- not that she had told anyone that out loud, of course.

All the intel really did say that it was a done deal. The intel didn't say that a faction within the organization was going to take this opportunity to wipe out the old guard and ransom Phil back to SHIELD. That part they couldn't have known, and it turned out to be really, really important.

Skye doesn't know why people keep demanding money. This spy shit is expensive, way more expensive than she'd realized when she wasn't the one looking at reports. They're only ever ten minutes from eating ramen noodles and selling plasma.

Not that she's ever done that.

But either way, now Phil is fighting his way out of an enemy base, alone. Luckily the upstarts are apparently either really incompetent or really don't understand that you don't become SHIELD director by sitting on your ass- which is a mark of incompetence, so it's the same either way. On the outside, Melinda is fighting her way in, which unfortunately they're better prepared for. However, when they snatched Phil, they knocked Melinda out and threw her from a moving vehicle, so she's really not happy.

And when Melinda's not happy, nobody's happy, at least nobody she's up against.

So now Skye, Trip, and Hunter are in the Quinjet, trying to get there as quickly as possible, but as _awesome_ as the Quinjet is, it's taking time. The bad thing about the new comm system is that you can pick up fighting noises and explosions and stuff, which weren't as loud when they had the older- but nicer- one. There's plenty of that coming through, mostly from Phil, though there was only the one explosion, thankfully.

"Trying for a wall breach," Phil says, followed by an _oof_ that was almost definitely him getting punched in the stomach, and a _smack_ that was probably the other guy hitting the floor. "Dunno if this is gonna work. If I die, don't forget to clean the fish tank."

"Don't fucking make jokes, Coulson," May snaps, and there's the sound of a taser and a scream- both, of course, coming from someone else. "Stay put and hold them back, I'll be there in a second."

"No can do," Phil says. "And I wasn't joking." The sound of whatever electronic device he's working with is faint, but Skye can see it on the waveform of his comm feed. "There's about a thirty percent chance that there's no way in hell this is going to work."

"Then find a better plan," Melinda says. Skye thinks that she or Trip or Hunter should have something to say, but there's just nothing; they're too far away, and anyway, she really doesn't want to get in the middle of this conversation. "Don't fucking do this."

"Have to," Phil says, and it's becoming apparent that he's in pain, more than he was when this conversation started. "See you on the other side."

"Phil, god _dammit_ ," Melinda says. "I love you."

Skye and Trip look at each other.

"Uh," Hunter says.

There is complete silence on the comms, absolutely nothing but dead air.

A full minute and thirty seconds later, the sound of gunfire suddenly comes through. "I'm past the wall," Phil says, and Skye remembers how to breathe again. "Does anybody copy?" Still nobody says anything. "Can you hear me now? I fucking told them this wasn't-"

"We read you," Skye says hurriedly, when she gets it back together. "We read you loud and clear."

"I'm making my way up the north ridge," Phil says. His breathing is labored, worse than it seems like it should be.

"Headed to your position now," Melinda says, and there's nothing in her voice that gives away the massive statement she just made, apparently to no one.

Well, unfortunately not no one; just not the person she thought she was making it to.

"Good," Phil says. "Because I need backup. And evac. And a place to lie down. Somewhere quiet. I need a quiet place to lie down."

Only twice in the entire time Skye has known her has she heard Melinda swear in Chinese, and it is a truly terrifying sound. The language has nothing to do with why it's so scary; it's this full-voiced snarl, and Skye thinks Melinda could probably recite the alphabet in that tone and make it sound like the Devil was talking.

"Wow," Phil says, after a pause. "I didn't know you were that pissed."

"Stay there," Melinda says, through gritted teeth. "May, out."

Hunter reaches over, muting their mic. "Are we going to talk about what just happened?"

"No," Trip says. "We are never gonna talk about it again."

"Alright then," Hunter says, unmuting the mic.

Phil's unconscious when they get there, and Melinda is maybe a little less careful than she should be in lifting him onto the stretcher. They carry him in, and Trip gets them the hell out of there.

Nobody talks on the way back.

Phil's banged up but stable, though he's still out when they get back to base. Skye's focused getting him to medical, and she's really not even paying attention when she reaches out for the door release. Melinda's hand suddenly slams against the wall, not four inches away, and Skye jumps back half a foot; she might have fallen if Trip hadn't been there.

Melinda looks each one of them dead in the eye.

Trip. "Not."

Hunter. "One."

Skye. "Word."

Skye is too scared and shocked to reply; Melinda stares hard at all of them for a moment before she reaches over and releases the door. She walks out, barking orders at the med team, leaving the three of them looking at each other.

That was the third-freakiest thing that has happened all week, and that is really, really saying something.

Skye already knows it's not stopping here.

\--

For a full two days, Hunter thinks it might actually not be a thing.

He's not a stranger to bad ideas that involve the opposite sex, and he knows sometimes that all you need is the right kick. Probably helped her out, saying it like that, even though Coulson apparently didn't hear it. He's not sure what Coulson would have said if he did; it would probably have been something like, "Really? You're putting this on me now?", but Hunter sees how they look at each other. He's always thought they were fucking, and what happened neither proves nor disproves that notion. This should make things better, though. Sometimes you just have to release the pressure or risk everything exploding.

May is under tight, tight compression at all times.

So he hasn't forgot about it, but he's also not really thinking about it. He's sitting in what passes for medical around here; they've got new toys, and an overly excited medic is showing him and Skye how to use them. Skye is very interested, asking about every little thing, but all Hunter really wants to know is which button does what. If he knows too much, he'll overthink, and those thirty seconds he spends trying to collect his thoughts could end up being thirty seconds they really needed.

Despite the fact that he's the one only halfway listening, Skye is the one who notices Mack first; he's clutching his side and walking stiffly, and he looks like he just got his ass thoroughly kicked. Skye pushes past the medic, taking Mack by the arm and leading him in. "Oh my god," she says. "Are you okay? What happened?"

"It's fine," he says, sitting on the edge of the table. "Nothing to worry about. I just sparred with Agent May."

Hunter raises an eyebrow at him. "That doesn't look like sparring, mate."

"I call it sparring," he says, hissing as Ruiz cleans the scrape on his shoulder, "because if she'd wanted to kill me, I'd be dead."

"I've seen May spar," Skye protests. "It's not like this. She doesn't try to hurt people."

"Well, she told me she was going to 'knock the hell out of the biggest motherfucker in the room', and I could cooperate or take what I got," Mack says. "I did the smart thing."

"She did not say that," she says, looking unamused.

"Oh no, trust me," he says. "She really, really did. And then she kicked the shit out of me." He rolls his shoulder, wincing. "It's okay, I can take my licks. I don't think _she's_ okay, though." Skye gives him a look, but he continues before she can speak. "I barely even managed to touch her. She's messed up about something. I don't know what it is, but I do know I can't play therapist again. I had to take a dive when she almost hit me in the kidney."

Hunter looks at Skye; she looks as uncomfortable as he does, though she seems considerably more upset. Hunter? Hunter's not upset. He's just trying to figure out the best place to hide until this blows over.

Apparently he was wrong. It didn't trigger a release. It triggered an explosion.

\--

"We need to talk," Hunter says quietly, looking around.

Trip studies him for a moment, before scanning the room. There are only a few people, but it's still too many for comfort. He tilts his head towards the door, and Hunter nods, walking out. Trip waits a minute or two before leaving; Hunter is standing a couple yards down the hallway, and he falls into step as Trip passes.

They stop in an alcove, and Trip takes a long look up and down the hallway before he speaks.

"No, we don't," Trip tells him.

"The damage is done," Hunter presses. "She obviously knows that."

"She said not to talk about it," Trip says firmly. "I know it's weird coming from a SHIELD agent, but I don't have a death wish."

"Look, there are four people in the world who know what happened back there," Hunter says. "I have to talk to someone about it. That leaves you and Skye."

"That's only three," Trip points out.

"Do you think _I_ want to die?" Hunter says.

Trip stares at him for a long moment. "Alright," he says. "What's up?"

"She's gone insane," Hunter says. "She beat the hell out of Mack."

"You shouldn't spar with May if you don't want to get hit," Trip says, shrugging.

"You're not listening," Hunter says. "There was nothing 'spar' about it. He went to medical." He purses his lips; he looks like he really doesn't want to tell Trip whatever it is he's about to tell him, and Trip knows that means it's important. "She's hurting other people now. The next person she hurts is going to be herself. We can't afford that."

Trip considers him. "When did you decide you were worried about what we could and couldn't afford?"

Hunter rolls his eyes, but he looks a little upset at himself for talking. "Just got my room decorated the way I like," he says.

"So what's our next move?" Trip asks.

Hunter sighs heavily. "No clue."

Trip stares at him for a moment.

"That's what you wanted to say?" Trip asks. "You told me all this and you don't have a plan?"

"I wanted _you_ to have a plan!" Hunter says. "You're the one that knows her."

"She's a grown-ass woman," Trip says, shrugging in defeat. "We can't try to walk in and save her from herself. That's not fair."

Hunter shuts his eyes tight, rubbing his forehead. "We just have to fucking tell Coulson. Someone has to."

Trip looks down the hallway, and Coulson is standing there; he's looking over at the two of them, and he doesn't seem particularly pleased. Hunter opens one eye, looking at Trip, and he winks when he sees how pissed off Trip is.

"Got to take your opportunities where you find them, eh?" Hunter says, taking his hand away from his face.

"You are _such_ an asshole," Trip says.

Hunter pats him on the arm. "I know. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to be hiding forever, because she really is going to murder me in cold blood if this goes wrong."

Hunter leaves, but Trip stays; he knows he has absolutely no chance of getting out of this, so it's better if he just stands here and takes it. Somebody has to.

Sure enough, Coulson walks over. "He wasn't very subtle, was he?" he says.

"Wasn't trying to be," Trip replies, standing up straight.

"Oh, I know," Coulson says. "But this seemed like the kind of trap I needed to walk into." He winces. "She's pissed, isn't she?"

"Couldn't say, sir," Trip says, not volunteering anything.

"You're doing that thing," Coulson says, making a motion with his hand in the air over his shoulder. "That looking three inches to the right of my head thing. It's creepy."

"Sorry, sir," Trip says. "Force of habit."

"This isn't a tribunal," Coulson tells him. "I'm not going to force answers out of you." He sighs. "But she is pissed though, right? She has every right to be." Trip doesn't let it show on his face that this conversation has just veered off course. "I almost got myself killed. She's not into that."

Trip really has no idea how to respond. There is no good way out of this conversation, because his situation has become precarious indeed. On the one hand, he can lie and tell Coulson that Melinda is fine; that's like sending Coulson into a minefield without warning him. On the other, he can tell Coulson the truth; that doesn't really seem like it's his to tell.

He picks option three. "She's pissed," Trip confirms, but he doesn't say anything else. Lies by omission are still lies, but they're much better ones.

Coulson sighs. "Yeah," he says. "Guess I better go apologize."

"Sir," Trip says in goodbye. When Coulson is gone, he lets out a big sigh, shutting his eyes.

Unless Melinda beats him to it, he is going to murder Hunter in his sleep.

\--

"Director," Melinda says, as she stands in front of his desk. Her face is completely blank, not a damn thing on it at all, and she's in that stance where he can tell she's forcing herself to relax; it's kind of exhausting to watch.

This isn't going to end well. Might as well start it now.

"I'm sorry," he says, skipping the prologue. "I fucked up. I should have been more careful. You were right. I can't take risks like I used to."

Melinda isn't saying anything. 

"I know I said I wouldn't go into the field anymore," he says; maybe it's better if he keeps talking, tries to apologize until she's done being pissed. "I guess I need to reevaluate what that means."

Her stance is getting tighter.

Okay, so it's not getting better, but he keeps talking, because now he's getting a little desperate. "If there had been any other option, I _swear_ to you that-"

Phil stops talking. From the look on her face, his life expectancy is getting exponentially shorter with every word out of his mouth.

"Stop apologizing to me," she says, in a dangerous tone. "You didn't do anything wrong."

Phil is very aware of two things: one, that contradicting her is going to make her explode; two, that it has to be done. "You know that's not true," he says, and he sees that he's hit the switch. "I should have-"

"Fucking shut up, Coulson," she snarls. "You were _my_ responsibility. _I_ fucked up. You did a fucking stupid thing because _I_ put you in a situation where you had to do it. And then I-" She's so angry she's shaking, and Phil knows this is where she'd usually pull it back together, lock it away.

"Then I fucking _gave up_ ," she says instead.

Phil frowns, not knowing what to say. It's very obvious to him that she didn't, but it's also very obvious to him that he's missed a lot. There's more than he thought here, and keeping his mouth shut is probably his only shot at finding out what it is.

"I _swore_ I wouldn't," she says. "I swore to you that I would do _everything_ in my power to protect you. But I thought you had ten seconds to live at _best_ , and I wasted it on telling you I love you instead of trying to help."

He just stares at her, his mouth open, and he sees the moment that it hits her, when her brain finally processes what she just said. And then for a long moment they're staring at each other, bewildered, shocked, lost.

"Fuck this," she says finally, and she walks out, slamming the door behind her.

Phil sits down heavily in his chair. He reaches forward, hitting the intercom. "Garage, this is the Director," he says. "If Agent May arrives, do not let her leave the premises."

"Affirmative, sir," the agent answers. "Is this a Code Orange situation, sir?"

Phil frowns, reaching for the cheat sheet on his desk and looking at it quickly. "Negative," he says. This is the exact opposite of turning traitor, actually. "Do not use force. If she becomes hostile do not engage." He pauses. "Unless she tries to take the Quinjet. Then probably engage. Icers only."

"Yes, sir."

Phil switches off the intercom, sitting back in his chair and looking up at the ceiling.

So. There's that.

\--

In the farthest part of the base, there's a door in the ceiling; it's not on the building plans, so Melinda is very aware that everyone has found it and followed the ladder attached up into the attic. That doesn't matter to her right now. Anyone who crosses her path doesn't matter to her.

She throws her lanyard out the window and pulls the cord, bringing the ladder down.

When she gets up into the attic, she pulls up the ladder and jams a board in hard between the door and its frame. She knows that one good pull on the door and it'll open anyway, but that doesn't matter. One, anyone who tries will get a board in the face for their trouble; two, she's not really trying to keep other people out.

She's trying to keep herself in.

Melinda doesn't have anger issues, because Melinda sees the value in anger. Anger is fuel. Anger keeps her running when there's nothing else inside of her. She doesn't precisely _enjoy_ being angry, but it brings her a certain kind of satisfaction when she unleashes it.

But there are angers, and there are angers. Good anger is directed at someone else. It's finite, controllable, and capable of being focused, trained on a target, deployed. This is bad anger. This is _extremely_ bad anger. This anger is poisonous. This anger will eat her alive, and she'll drag others down with her.

So this is quarantine.

She sits in the middle of the floor, crosslegged, and shuts her eyes. Maybe if she sits there long enough, just tries to bring it back down, it will come back under control.

Instead, her hands itch for the Berserker staff.

That's the other reason she came up here.

She knows where it is.

She doesn't know how long she sits there, but she starts to feel a little better. One of the problems with the Playground- with SHIELD, with her life- is that there are people, always people. She does better without them, and right now, she desperately needs to be without them, before she lashes out again. Maybe she'll just stay, sleep here, not come out until tomorrow. She can go without food for a while, at least long enough to get her head on straight.

Then the door opens, and the board clatters to the floor below.

Great. This is exactly what she needs right now.

"I'm coming up," Phil says, and Melinda sighs. She knew it would either be him or Skye that came to retrieve her, and Skye has too strong of a preservation instinct to do anything but talk to her through the door.

"Taking your life into your hands, Coulson," she says, not moving, digging her fingernails into her thighs so she won't.

"Believe me, I am completely aware that you're not kidding," Phil says, over the sound the ladder makes as he climbs. "I'm not coming over there. I'm sitting right here by the door. Take your time."

Melinda's nostrils flare, but finally she opens her eyes, looking at him. "Yes?"

"You do know I really didn't hear, right?" Phil says. She purses her lips. He puts up his hands. "Nobody told me anything. Well, not until after I talked to you. They're all too scared."

"Good," Melinda says. "They should be."

Phil sighs. For a moment, Melinda thinks he's going to do the smart thing and leave; instead he pulls the ladder up, shutting the door. He walks over, sitting down in front of her, still a few feet away. "It's okay," he says.

"No, it's not," Melinda says. "You know that it's not."

Phil has this way of looking at her like she's a logic problem, and right now she wants to slap that look right off of his face. "You fucked up," he says simply. "It was a lapse in judgment. It was dangerous to say that where you could be overheard, and you could have distracted me at a critical moment."

It seems like those words should hurt, but for some reason they comfort her; it makes her feel like she hasn't been tearing herself to shreds for no reason. "Yes, sir," she says. "What can I expect to happen?"

Phil looks at her like he doesn't really understand the question. "Nothing," he says. "We got away. There was no real damage. I know you wouldn't have done it if I hadn't forced your hand." He sighs. "You and Agent Mackenzie, on the other hand, need to have a talk."

"Yes, sir," she says, looking down at the floor.

He gets up, walking over and sitting down next to her. "It really is okay, Melinda," he says gently. "We all have the one thing." She gives him a look. "You know exactly what I mean," he tells her. "The one thing. The thing we haven't said. The thing we'll never say." His face goes distant. "And then sometimes we're faced with the last possible moment it can be said. Then we say it or we don't, and we have to live with what comes next. Unless, of course, the last possible moment is right before we die, but then everybody else has to deal with it."

She studies him. "And you have a 'one thing'?" she asks.

He shakes his head. "I have, like, six?" Melinda raises an eyebrow at him. "I have a lot on my plate," he says apologetically. "I have one for SHIELD. I have one for Stark. I have one for Skye." He pauses. "I have one for you."

Melinda swallows. She doesn't want to hear it, doesn't want to know what he's going to say, but she doesn't say anything. It doesn't seem right to stop him.

"Can I put my arm around you?" he says, holding it up. "I don't want to make any sudden movements." Despite herself, Melinda huffs a laugh, nodding. She thinks he's going to put it around her shoulders, pull her in like it's a huddle; instead he slips it around her waist, loose but _there_ , barely touching but heavy as an iron band.

"I didn't say it, because I didn't think it was my last chance," he prefaces. "Maybe it was the blood loss talking, but I thought my half-assed plan was going to work." He takes a breath, lets it out slowly. "But I love you. I have since." He shrugs, sighing, like there's no word that goes there. "I knew you had feelings for me, but-"

"But what?" Melinda says, looking at him in disbelief and disapproval. Her heart is beating out of her chest, and her hand is shaking where it rests on her thigh; she desperately hopes he can't tell.

"But I didn't think it was fair?" Phil says. "I couldn't just assume I knew what you wanted and act accordingly." He sighs. "Also, making the first move in a situation like this is kind of terrifying. I had this idea that at some point in my life it was going to get easy? Never happened." He looks at her. "And I know you, Melinda. If I said it at the wrong time or in the wrong way, you were going to-" He frowns, making a hand motion. "Curl up, and I was never going to get back in again. I couldn't take that chance. You mean too much to me."

She doesn't say anything, just sits there with it for a moment, turning it over in her head. 

Then she pulls away from him.

The look on his face is heartbreaking, so despondent and so resigned; good thing she only sees it for a second, because then she's in his lap, kissing him hard, pressed against him tight. She can't bear the thought of separating from him, of putting even an inch between their bodies.

"Or we can do this," Phil says, when she breaks the kiss, and he looks a little stunned. "This is good too."

"Good," she says, kissing him again. She does it over and over, can't keep from doing it, has to have more and more. He seems just as desperate, clutching her to him, unwilling or unable to let her go now that they've come this far, that they've actually hit the point of no return and fallen right over it.

Melinda finally tears herself away from him long enough to pull her shirt over her head, tossing it blindly towards the wall.

"Are we about to fuck in the attic?" Phil says, though he's mostly talking to her breasts.

"Unless you're going to stop me," Melinda says, reaching back and unhooking her bra; she pulls it off too, throwing it away somewhere, not really caring where it lands. She has better things on her mind.

"What kind of idiot would do that?" he replies, and she moans as he leans forward and takes her nipple into his mouth. He flicks his tongue over it, his hand coming up to massage her other breast, and Melinda wonders why she didn't do this years ago.

She knows the answer perfectly well.

He scrapes his teeth over her skin, just hard enough to make her buck against him, grabbing the back of his head so he can't get away, can't stop what he's doing. It's so fucking good, his lips and his tongue and the fact that it's _finally_ happening, that she doesn't have to carry it inside her anymore, the lead weight in her stomach, the dull ache in her heart. He breaks away, but only long enough to focus in on her other nipple, give it the same treatment. She doesn't know how much of it she can take; she's already so wet, needs him in her so badly she could scream for it.

He takes his mouth away from her skin, and she strikes; actually, she falls, tips backwards and lets his weight do the rest. He's startled, so much that he only barely keeps himself from flopping down and crushing her. She pulls him back in, kissing him as she unbuttons his shirt, pushing it back over his shoulders. He hurriedly does the rest, and it hits the floor somewhere, somewhere unimportant. She knows his scar is there, that she could touch it, whatever that would mean; she doesn't. This isn't about that, about death. This is about how they are _alive_.

He unbuckles his belt, unzipping his pants and pushing them down. They really should have planned this better, she thinks, because now her goddamn pants are in the way. He looks confused when she pushes him back, but he doesn't stop her. She puts her legs straight up, raising her hips and rocking back so that her weight is on her shoulder blades; from there it's easy to push down- well, up, under the circumstances- her pants and underwear, rolling them down her legs and pulling them over her feet, dropping them on the floor. For sheer mischief, she opens her legs before she brings them back down, so that they end up on either side of Phil's, spread out.

Phil stares at her.

"Can you please do that every day?" he asks.

"Play your cards right," she says, pushing down his boxer briefs so that she can finally get her hand around his cock. It's thick and hard and she wants it so much, has to have it in her _now_ , right now, or she doesn't even know what she'll do.

It could easily be different, she knows. She could push him back and ride him, control every bit of it; he'd gladly let her, but that's not what she wants. This isn't about proving a point, trying to win. This is about the two of them, together, and she doesn't need anything else.

Instead she hooks her legs around his waist, and the moments before she feels him are torturous, stretching out for so long, but then he's there, the head of his cock sliding over her before he pushes inside. She throws her head back, gasping, and he bites down on her shoulder, sucking hard. She'll have a mark, but this time she doesn't fucking care. She can worry about it later, much later, when they're good and done.

She digs her heels into his back as he starts to fuck her. He's moving fast, hard, desperate right from the beginning; another time it might piss her off, but right now it feels like exactly what she needs. She needs to come so badly, needs him to make her do it, needs him inside her and over her and with her, however she can get him. Her body feels like it's on fire, like she's going to just blow up at any moment, like there's no way she can contain all of this.

"Phil," she groans. "Phil, please."

"I love you," he says, which wasn't actually what she was going for, but fuck that. It sounds so good from his lips, hits her down in her core, chips away at something inside of her, something that's been stuck for too long.

"Say it again," she says, rocking her hips up faster.

"I love you so goddamn much," he says, pressing his face into her shoulder.

"I'm so close," she moans. "Come on, Phil, I need it so much-"

"You're going to leave me hanging?" Phil says, looking a little put out.

"I love you too," she says, pulling him down and kissing him. "Now make me come."

"That's more like it," he says, thrusting into her faster. Her whole body is tense, and she's so close, she's right there, she needs to come so badly that it's agony, it's torment, he moves and she moves and they meet in just the right way, and she comes so hard that her back pops in two places.

"Phil," she pants, even while she's still in it, under it, the feeling crashing on her again and again. "Phil, come on, do it, come for me-" She hasn't even finished speaking before he does it, crying out; it strikes her suddenly that with as much noise as they've made, anybody could have heard them, even from the floor below. 

But let them fucking hear it. She and Phil have waited long enough.

And then they're just lying there, clinging to each other, letting it settle between them. Phil somehow finds the wherewithal to roll them to one side so that he's not crushing her, but he doesn't move away, just stays there and holds her. It comes to her by degrees that she, on a purely physical level, is going to regret doing it like this; she's sweaty and sticky and she's starting to feel the places he bit her, the spot on her shoulder she's going to be hiding for a week. At the moment, she really has no idea how they're going to get out of here and to anywhere they can clean up without doing a very obvious walk of shame past half of SHIELD.

She doesn't regret it in a single other way.

\--

"Told you it was going to work out," Hunter says, repeatedly throwing his apple up in the air and catching it.

"When exactly did you say that?" Trip asks.

" _Why_ did you say that?" Skye says. "On what planet did that ever seem like that was going to happen?"

And yet, here they are; Phil and Melinda are standing next to a worktable, going over plans for something or another that Skye can't quite make out. Phil has his hand on her back, just resting there, no reason. What's amazing about it is that Melinda hasn't slapped him, doesn't even seem to notice, like it's a perfectly natural place for his hand to be.

For her? Might as well be wearing a giant I <3 COULSON sign around her neck.

"Thank god it did, though," Skye says, turning away from them. "I can't take it when Mom and Dad are fighting."

"I know exactly what you mean," Trip says. "It's bad for my blood pressure."

"I think they're getting on just fine now," Hunter says, smirking. "You might even have a new baby brother or sister."

A hand snatches the apple in mid-air. "I had my tubes tied," Melinda says, biting into it as she walks away.

"I was going to eat that!" Hunter protests.

"Now I am," Melinda replies, unconcerned, not bothering to turn back around.

"Now see, I like her like this," Trip says. "I like relaxed Mom."

Hunter sighs. "I was looking forward to that apple."

"Well, that's what you get," Skye says, unconcerned. "Better get to the kitchen before they're gone." Hunter rolls his eyes, but he slinks off anyway.

"C'mon," Trip says, holding out his elbow. "Mack's supposed to be helping Fitz through some icer upgrades. If we're lucky, we might get first shot."

"Sounds like my kinda party," Skye says, hooking her arm through his. "Lead the way."

Phil watches them go, leaning back against the worktable and just sort of thinking to himself, a smile on his face. 

Then there's a noise, and he raises his hand to his ear.

"Yeah," he says. "Came through fine." He listens to the response. "No, we are _not_ done. I want these comms to work through a Faraday cage in a lead-lined bunker with fifteen-inch concrete walls at the bottom of the goddamn _ocean_ , and never you fucking _mind_ why."


End file.
